Chapter 4 - Names in the Dark
The storm passed as quickly as it had arrived, leaving the desert air cold, sharp, and smelling intensely of wet creosote. Outside the cave, water rushed through the wash below in a brown, roaring torrent that carried driftwood and tumbleweeds toward the southern plains.
Silas sat with his back against the stone wall, a small, smokeless fire burning between his boots using dry roots he'd scavenged from the back of the cave. The flickering light illuminated the pages of the leather ledger as Nalin turned them one by one.
"Here," she said, pointing to an entry near the middle of the book. "This is the month my brother's family was raided. The signature isn't Halloway's. It's Major Vance. But the funds came from the quartermaster's account at Fort Huachuca."
Silas leaned closer, his eyes narrowing as he read the cramped, precise handwriting. "Vance was Halloway's second-in-command during the Apache campaigns. He was the one who handled the supply manifests when half our rations disappeared between Tucson and the border."
"They weren't rations," Nalin whispered. "They were bribes. Bribes paid to local contractors to look the other way when children from the reservation were rounded up under the guise of 'educational relocation.'"
Silas stared at the names—dozens of them, written in neat rows with sums of money listed beside each child's age and tribal affiliation. Some entries had small red crosses beside them, indicating deaths attributed to "exposure" or "disease."
"Halloway isn't just running a local protection racket," Silas said, the realization settling over him like cold iron. "He’s feeding a pipeline that stretches all the way to the railway camps in Chihuahua. The mining companies down there use forced labor to keep costs down while the government looks the other way."
Nalin looked up, her dark eyes reflecting the firelight. "And if this book reaches the territorial marshal in Prescott, the whole system collapses."
"Which is why Vain has been hunting you across three counties," Silas added. "He's not a county deputy. He's Halloway's collection hound. He wears a star because it keeps the real sheriffs from asking questions when bodies turn up in the desert."
He looked at Nalin, really looking at her for the first time since the shootout at the cottonwood tree. She wasn't just a refugee running from outlaws; she was the sole remaining link to a conspiracy that had murdered his unit twenty years ago and continued to destroy families across the entire territory.
"Why didn't you take this to the soldiers at Fort Bowie?" Silas asked.
"Because Fort Bowie is under Colonel Halloway's direct command," she answered bitterly. "Every officer there answers to him. If I walked through their gates, I wouldn't leave alive, and the ledger would be tossed into the stove before nightfall."
Silas nodded slowly. She was right. The military protected its own, especially when the gold was flowing from Washington through the territorial supply lines.
"Then we don't go to the fort," Silas said, reaching for his hat. "We go to Tombstone. There's a federal judge there—Judge Parker's circuit rider. He doesn't owe Halloway anything, and he hates military interference in civil law."
Nalin hesitated, closing the ledger and slipping it back beneath her belt. "Tombstone is fifty miles south through Apache Pass. Vain and his men will be watching every trail."
Silas stood up, testing his bad leg with a quiet grimace as the stiffness began to wear off. He picked up his Sharps rifle and checked the load.
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"That's why we aren't taking the trail," Silas said, a faint, humorless smile touching the corners of his mouth. "We're taking the old supply road through the Skeleton Hills. Nobody uses it anymore because everyone thinks it's dry. But I dug a well there thirty years ago, and Halloway's men are too lazy to check a dry map."
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